


Hymn

by sylaises (Archedes)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/sylaises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan kisses him, and for a moment—for a century—he wonders if, perhaps, it could be that easy. Solas-centric companion piece to "Lullaby".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hymn

At first, Solas is fairly dismissive of her. Lavellan is young and soft-hearted, fearful because she is out of her element among these humans and yet, still, far too earnest for her own good. Kinder than many of the People he has interacted with in the years since his betrayal, perhaps, but kindness has never been something he considered worthwhile. She asks him questions, lips—small, thin—tightening around the edges when he speaks of the Dalish. _Hahren_ is a weapon on her tongue, and inwardly he laughs at this _girl_ who makes to humble him with nothing more than her refusal to bite back. This is the only time he underestimates her, falls prey to the air of naïveté that she carries in her wake, and in return he does not hear _hahren_ again.

“I’ve heard it all before,” she explains once in the tavern as she chases a bit of egg around her plate. Haven is quiet in the early mornings, and aside from Flissa they are the only two there. “You people all sound the same when you say those things, so it’s not like I’m at a loss for comebacks or anything.”

“‘You people’?” he asks curiously.

“You _did_ say you didn’t want to be associated with _us_.” She smiles as she says it, a flash of teeth, and he finds himself smiling back—hers is pointed and only half-humorous, and it is not lost on him. He realizes that they can sit like this (companionable in a way that hurts) because her pride is quieter. Unlike him, she does not stake herself on it.

He amends as best he can. In the beginning, it is out of obligation that he sits at her side, forsaking sleep so that he can monitor the mark. The apothecary has done the best he can with his inadequate, human knowledge, but Solas is certain she would have died had he not come to Cassandra when he did. Her face contorts, slick with sweat, sporadic muttering that he can only understand when he puts his ear to her lips (and even then it is the incomprehensible, disjointed murmurs of a sleep talker).

Now that she is awake, he amends when she comes to him wounded. She always smiles apologetically, as though the gash on her chest (on her arms, her sides, the backs of her shoulder blades) comes from her own clumsiness rather than an enemy’s blade. Yet this does not stop her from fidgeting, impatient in the small Haven house he has been given.

“It was easier to heal you when you were asleep,” he tells her, fingers tracing a deep cut on her abdomen where her leathers had given way. Though the windows are closed, the sounds of the townspeople drift in and mix with the grating _tap tap tap_ of Lavellan’s feet as she swings them, heels making rough contact with the wooden desk. She insists on sitting upon it when he heals her, claiming to have had enough of sickbeds to last a lifetime (though she remembers none of it).

She grins despite herself—it is simple enough for him to stop the bleeding, yet she is covered in an array of superficial wounds that he imagines must sting. “You think everything’s easier when people are sleeping.”

He only hums in response, focusing instead on his magic as it gathers at his fingertips, green and glowing as he begins the meticulous process of stitching the skin back together. “Would you like me to leave a scar?” he teases, glancing up to her eyes but for a moment. He receives a laugh in return, punctuated by a final _tap_ as she stills her legs.

“What would be the point if you’re the only one who’ll see—” she cuts herself off, surprised. “Oh…that came out wrong.”

“It is nonetheless relieving to know you are not seeing another healer on the side.”

“Adan would tear all his hair out if I went to him.” She falls silent, pensive. “You’re much better at this than my keeper, though.”

“Thank you. I have had a…moderate amount of practice.” A bald-faced lie, but it is not one she has any reason to question. It is easier to hide the truth from her when he has something to occupy himself with; for whatever reason, it has become increasingly uncomfortable for him to lie to her. It is not the first time someone has unwisely placed their trust in him; the difference with Lavellan is that hers lacks greed. Her attempts to claim him as her own—as one of _her_ people, an elf like any other—are not thinly veiled petitions to his power. He has no experience with real kinship, but he does not have the heart to tell her that what she is asks of him is something he cannot give.

Though there are times when he is on the cusp of sleep, on the verge of taking that final step into the welcoming embrace of the Fade, that he truly wants to.

The gods wanted him for what he could do for them, and they had been repaid in kind.

“You still want to stay, right?” She is visibly embarrassed when she asks, but he politely keeps his eyes down. He does not know how to feel: he finds himself smiling—a slight curve of the lips, small and discreet and unintended.

“I do.” He leans back, head tilted as he inspects his work. A thin pink line is all that remains, though that will fade with time.

“Good.” He waits for her to say something more, but she only picks up her shirt and puts it on, fumbling with the buttons. When she stands, she hesitates, lips pressed together like she has something unpleasant to say. “Well. Thanks as always. Don’t take a nap or anything. Cassandra wants to go out soon.” Whatever she has meant to say, this is not it, and she gives him a vague smile before disappearing out the door.

***

At first, Haven lacks the pomp and power of the village that is all too easily crushed beneath the heel of a would-be god. She has only him and Varric to divide her time between, confesses that the humans make her nervous though she could see herself liking Josephine, perhaps. Her company is pleasant, and he finds himself somewhat unsettled by the respect she grants him. His ears, he thinks, and despite her words he is comforting to her because of what he is—or what she perceives him to be.

But the Inquisition grows, and he begins to see her less and finds himself disappointed by it. After having monopolized her attention for so long, his surroundings begin to seem emptier without her. It nags at him, and firmly he thinks that it is best for both of them that she has found others to occupy herself with. He—Solas, Fen’Harel—is here to correct a mistake, and that is all. When Vivienne arrives, he politely turns Lavellan down when she comes for healing and pretends not to see her hurt expression.

“I simply think you would benefit far more from Vivienne’s expertise,” he explains, but he has allowed her too close already, and the lie is too feeble.

“You must think I’m _really_ stupid.” Her arms are folded tight across her chest, though her eyes never lift higher than his collar. “Don’t lie. What’s the problem? Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not.”

She opens her mouth, tense, yet instead of arguing further she closes it without a word. “I’ll go to Vivienne, then,” she says finally, and before he can decipher her expression she is turning away.

***

When Haven and its herald are buried beneath the snow, and when the tattered remnants of the Inquisition camp for days in the wilderness with no sign of Lavellan having survived, he begins to hate himself. If anyone should have stayed to confront Corypheus, it should have been him. He should have insisted on remaining at her side, even if it would have aroused Cassandra and Leliana’s suspicions of him. They have lost their only means of combating the Breach, and yet he is instead consumed by the thought that he has failed again—for the second time—so soon after awakening.

But she does return, half-frozen and concussed and barely able to keep her eyes open as she is carried into the tent. Solas does not wait for them to call him, entering behind Cullen and kneeling beside the cot they have laid her on. Someone—Josephine or Leliana—leaves for blankets, but Solas pays them no heed, taking Lavellan’s face in his hands and warming her with a whisper of magic. Her eyes flutter: she is on the very edge of unconsciousness. A precursory examination reveals several broken ribs and two broken wrists doubtlessly accompanied by fractures etching up towards her elbows.

“Junia,” he murmurs, voice low yet firm. “You must stay awake. Can you hear me?”

She mumbles something unintelligible, something vaguely affirmative, and that is enough for him. It is not unlike the day he met her, and the similarities leave him cold. Someone returns with blankets, wraps them tight around her while Solas forces her to sit up. He scarcely notices the humans when they begin to argue amongst themselves, and before long they move back outside (he realizes he has not said a word to them, nor they to him, during the entire process).

Lavellan’s eyes are unfocused, so he takes her hands in his and brings them to his mouth, warming them with his breath as he brushes away the cracks on her bones, his magic seeping down beneath her skin. Despite the heat inside the tent, her lips are blue and bleeding, split from the mountain winds as she struggled her way back to them. So he talks—hoping it will help keep her awake, hoping it will push back what has begun to rise up in the back of his throat.

He tells her of how, once, long ago, when he had been young, a powerful templar (Elgar’nan) pursued him through the Frostbacks in a chase that spanned two years. He tells her the relentlessness of his foe, how he had been weakened by the cold and forced to flee without rest. He tells her of the villages he had passed through, who had turned him aside for fear of the templar’s wrath, who saw him for what he was despite his desperate subterfuge. He tells her that he, like her, had been in the arms of Death (of uthenera, of a wound so great centuries would pass before he would recover). He tells her of the mercy he had been shown and had not deserved. He tells her of the templar’s wife who had followed them, had interceded on his behalf and calmed her husband’s fury.

And then he asks her forgiveness, begs it because even now he cannot even reveal to her _why_ he is sorry. Only that he is, more than she will ever understand. Lavellan is tired, and the weight of her exhaustion seeps out through her words: “It’s all right.” Quiet, worn. She says it for his benefit, and he knows this. And he wonders at what point he had begun to care so much that it hollows him out and leaves him feeling lost.

***

Lavellan kisses him—there in his false Haven where he brings her because he finds it unbearable to watch her struggle beneath the demands of the Inquisition. Lavellan kisses him, and for a moment—for a century—he wonders if, perhaps, it could be that easy. He knows the gods by name—by face—and knows what they have done, what they have taken for themselves to sate their own divine greed. Perhaps, for all his posturing, he is no better than them after all.

***

“You’ve seemed kind of mopey since we got here.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you’re _actually_ allergic to halla.”

“Vhenan, if I was I doubt we would be able to spend as much time together as we do.”

“Are you saying I smell like halla?”

“Of course not.”

“I _don’t_. I haven’t been around a single one since we were in the Plains.”

“And how do you feel?”

“…Kind of homesick, I guess. I don’t know. It would be nicer here if not for all the—you know—humans. Our jungle was different.”

“I imagine so. This was a burial ground. I doubt many Dalish clans would tarry here long.”

“Is that why you’re sad?”

“I am not.”

“Hmmm.” Lavellan leans forward, their noses almost brushing as she pretends to inspect his face. It is mostly quiet in the clearing—behind them, in the ruined colonnade, the others are setting up camp. She had followed him when he slipped away, out into the surrounding trees.

“Are _you_?”

“Am I what?”

“Sad?”

She smiles, and it is something tired—weighed down from the days of travel that had brought them to the Emerald Graves. “No. I don’t think so. I’ve been thinking.” She pulls back, hands on her knees where she sits cross-legged across from.

“Do tell.”

“There’s not much of a point, is there? To being sad about it. That’s…all the Dalish do, really. They’re sad about what we’ve lost, but that’s all.”

Solas does not answer.

“Arlathan is never going to come back. I never really thought about it until all of this started. If we—the elves in general, I mean—come close to what we once were, it still won’t be the same.”

“I see.”

She laughs. “Is that all you have to say? I thought I was being pretty profound just now.” He smiles back despite himself, and invariably his eyes are drawn to the _vallaslin_ etched across her forehead. He has looked at them enough to have each tendril of Mythal’s brand seared into his mind, and he reaches out to lightly trace the ink curling under her left eye with his thumb. She leans into him, and his smile slips away.

“You are right, though I do not think the Dalish would be so quick to abandon what little of… _Arlathan_ that they have kept.”

“I know. Seriously, are you all right? You look like someone died.” Lavellan pulls his hand from her face, lacing her fingers through his. “Well. You sort of always look like that, but today you look grimmer than usual.”

“It is…disheartening to see that the Venatori have spread even here.” It is a half-truth, and he apologizes with a kiss, lips pressing against the corner of her mouth. “Come,” he says briskly, and when he stands he gently pulls her up with him, never once letting go of her hand. “We should return to the others.”

***

She looks for her lost gods in all that she sees (the perfunctory, thoughtless motions of a Dalish more familiar with the rituals than their ancient half-forgotten stories), though the birds cannot sing of things thousands of years dead.

“What’s this?” Her fingers ghost over his jaw, the jaw around his neck, white bone blackened with old blood.

“A reminder.” He—gently, always gently, killing himself with the gentleness he gives to her—plucks her fingers away, encompasses her hand with his own, brings them to his lips to press his affection along her knuckles.

***

They are in the Hissing Wastes, in a hissing nest of wyverns where the air has turned noxious and suffocating from the breath that seeps from their jagged maws. The sand here is littered with eggshells and old bones and rancid meat and cracked stone. Cassandra stumbles, falls to one knee, regains her balance by burying her blade between the scales of one beast and leveraging herself back to her feet.

From the corner of his eye, Solas sees Lavellan draw back her bow, eyes hooded as she lets it fly only for it to fall short, sinking silently into the cold sand. When she realizes, her lips tighten, set into a hard line as she draws another arrow and lines it up with her outstretched arm, muscles and string pulled taught.

Later, at camp, she laughs. “I don’t do so well at night, you know. Can you believe it? An elf who can’t see in the dark.”

“Your eyes…” he says, feeling foolish for not having noticed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s all right. It doesn’t bother me. My keeper gave me another ten or fifteen years before I’d have to give up archery, but I think that’s plenty of time to fix the Breach, right?” Her smile is tight, unique in that unlike most of her others it never reaches her eyes, which are glassy and bright in the light from the dying campfire. “As long as I don’t hit anyone on our side.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. It is so easy for him to forget how different they truly are—the crumbling of old empires and the cannibalization of their bones for the foundation of new ones stands between them. She is mortal, and he has abandoned his mortality long, long ago.

“Oh, stop. You’re making this a lot weirder than it has to be. Just forget about it, okay?” She nudges his shoulder with her own. “Honestly, you look for anything to be grumpy about.”

“I do not.” He can feel the beginnings of a smile, and he turns his head away. Miles down the hill he can make out one of the many ancient dwarven structures they have already encountered here. A small cluster of torches, bobbing in the wind, have gathered at the base of the statue—a collection of scavengers looking for what had been left behind by the Venatori and the Inquisition both. It strikes him that she would not be able to see them, would in fact see little more than blurry specks of gold in a sea of moon-washed blue.

“Out of curiosity: why archery?”

“I like it?” Amusement is alive in her voice. “It’s relaxing, in a way. Lining up the shot, focusing on every part of your body down to where you put your feet so you don’t mess it up. Besides, I don’t do well in close-quarters. I choke and wind up getting hit. On the other hand, as an archer, I’m _pret_ -ty good at running away.”

“A trait you and I share.”

“Yeah? You can do that neat barrier thing, though.”

“It’s not always as useful as one might think.”

“Vague as ever.”

“Frustrating you provides a simple respite in these dark times.”

“Oh bite me.” When he leans towards her, flashing his teeth playfully, she shoves him back, her hand warm on his shoulder and her smile warm on her face. “You’re not _nearly_ as funny as you think you are.”

“Really?”

“Really. Sera and I have talked about it.”

“Then it must be no small miracle that you are able to be around someone as insufferable as me.”

“I know. I’m a martyr. I only laugh at your jokes to make you feel better.”

“The bards will sing of your compassion.”

Lavellan laughs softly, and then she leans back, laying out on the cool sand with her head pillowed on her hands. Solas follows her gaze to the stars, and the sky is rife with them, spanning out above their heads and dotting the edges of a thin crescent moon. They are so far to the west that the Breach is but a distant memory, a wane green glow on the distant horizon, concealed by clouds—Solas discovers when he looks there to where the giant tear ought to be. His latest folly—no, he thinks, that title belongs to that steady warmth that alights in his chest when he sees Lavellan, hears her voice calling to him across Skyhold’s great hall. He is old enough to remember when Arlathan had been but a ragged collection of hopeful dreamers who turned their thatched huts to towering blue spires that would but the humans’ Golden City to shame. He is old enough to know better, and he is old enough still to know that such knowledge is useless in the face of fervent emotion. Much has changed since he last walked the earth, but that remains the same, and its familiarity is to him both comforting and maddening.

“You ready to go to sleep?” Lavellan asks, and he can feel her eyes resting on the back of his head, his face still cast to the stars.

“Almost.”


End file.
